Saturday, 26 September 2009

Count Down To Take Off

Saturday. Blurry morning after the night before. Wrap party wrapped. Our travels suddenly seem like a palpable reality. Sam and I count down the days to joining the traveling circus. Ok, not a real-bonafide-we-are-in-Chicago-in-the-1920s-traveling-by-train kind of circus, but the overactive part of my imagination has already anticipated similar camaraderie and drama. And mileage. The thought of flying and driving across the states as a three strong family band and part of a 40 something strong troupe of american musical theatre performers, musicians and technicians fills me with the kind of tingly anticipation of a 6 year old on christmas eve. I think, perhaps wrongly, predicted that I will take on the persona of token foreigner in the group, what with me being the only Brit in the pack, and along only for the ride - Cory will be doing the real work, sporting a hump for 8 shows a week entertaining the american public as Igor in Young Frankenstein. I wonder how long I might maintain the illusion that I do actually live in a castle and drink tea dead on 4.30pm every afternoon. Will my accent retain its roots or will I, not for want of resistance, simply succumb to the blurred twang of a transatlantic drawl. There are worse fates; I might become addicted to fanatically fussy coffee orders that extend way beyond a simple two syllable request, supersizing, unhumanly toned triceps, tanning booths, botox, coca cola, rodeo. I will stop at that before I tick all the negative american stereotypes. Which is of course why I am looking forward to our adventure. I fully intend to prove many of the stereotypes wrong. Or maybe right. Or maybe a bit of both. I intend to be surprised by people. To get to know the yanks, if perhaps a select group of them. Are musical theatre performers a good guide to the people? I don't see why not? I strong belt, (I'm talking vocal not leather) a few sequins a couple of jazz hands and a trunk load of theatrical anecdotes never hurt nobody....But first, to pack. Or unpack as I like to think on it. As in, take out half the stuff I have planned to take to leave room for copious collecting of memorabilia. My heart goes out to the poor stifled voice in my head, barely audible above the reams of daily amplified lists, struggling to convince me that this tour might also be an excercise in relinquishing our materialistic lives. Nothing makes me want to enjoy a minimalist life more than packing up our flat up for the year. And yet, here I am making room in the case for more stuff to clog up the not-sure-what-category drawer, or, my personal favourite, as my exasperated husband will tell you, the this-sideboard-is-from-Narnia-so-no-amount-of-schmutter-is-too-much-all-extras-will-be-shunted-miraculously-to-magic-lands-and-will-not-fall-out-each-time-you-try-to-actually-store-useful-things. In my defence it is the first time I have had such a beautiful piece of practical (not a word usually associated with anything I own or love) furniture. I digress. I won't make empty promises of not doing so again. For now, I leave to rise into the world of the living (thank you bucket of coffee) look forward to some serious mum and daughter time (thank you best mate and her fiance for playing mum and dad to our Sammy-boy for the day) and blog my way to the start of our travels. Altogether now, "happy trails to youuuuuuuu......."

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